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By dom and earl
from los angeles,CA

9/15/2005
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Two Takes by Dom and Earl

Take One:

Dom and Earl went to a neighborhood diner to catch up on old times. They went way back and had run into each other at the museum a few weeks before. Earl had been spending his time in the desert breaking rocks with small pick axe and building balsa wood turbines to harness the wind so that he could power a transistor radio and a 40-watt light bulb. Dom was just being Dom, wasting time and talking about the junkie revolution.

Gimme the bacon and eggs, Iím fucking hungry. And you better not cook those eggs too long, Iíll have a fit. Dom put his cigarette out on the table.

Iíll let the cook know. Heís usually shit faced on the rot gut that he keeps stashed in his back pocket, but I know how to talk to him. And what would you like? She looked at Earl with her pen poised and ready.

Iíll have the reuben sandwich, doll. With the french fries.

Check.

The waitress went to fill the order and so they waited and bull shitted and thought about the food that was on its way. And Dom hoped that the eggs werenít burnt and Earl only wanted to be sure there was extra pickles on his plate.

Oh my god. Excuse me. She stood before them like a gold spangled angel wrapped in blue. She wasnít a waitress. She wasnít even a patron. She struck them both as a little cracked and was probably hopped up on the shit, glue maybe, or pills, or the speed, or possibly all three.

I donít mean to bother you two butÖ she walked around the table and looked into Earlís eyes and then looked into Domís eyes. She was unstable. Her lips trembled and her pretty eyes looked as if they were going to crumble to dust. She couldnít complete a thought or finish an idea. She resorted to acting in pantomime. She showed off her electric blue finger nail polish and her contrasting red toe nail polish. She did a little dance and pulled her shorts from her ass. She was a mess and there was no making sense of her.

Earl wouldnít know what to say if he could. He was a little embarrassed by the whole deal. Human tragedy left a bad taste in his mouth.

Dom thought to himself that if she was about 15 years younger, he might try and bang her. She had one of those kind troubled faces that he found attractive.

So they both waited patiently. They talked to her. They humored her and asked her question
s and kept her occupied and watched her hitch and shake and they were both sad for the gold spangled girl in blue. They both had there own problems, but they didnít compare to the madness that this girl seemed to be living in 24 hours a day.

The waitress finally brought their food and she had to side step the gold spangled girl in blue in order to lay the plates on the table. As she left, the crazy girl hovered over their table and ran her fingers through her hair and grabbed the corners of the table and boogied like a juke box girl. Neither Dom nor Earl could get a proper bite in their mouths. The diner looked as if it were three steps from being a gypsy circus. All the crazy lady needed were some castanets.

Dom had had enough. Nice was nice but he was hungry.

Hey, listen doll, weíre trying to eat here. I havenít seen my friend in awhile and we were having a nice peaceful conversation until you decided to crash our scene like manic belly dancer. Why donít you shove off and go eat some paste?

The gold spangled girl in blue was hurt. She tuned on her heels and mouthed a handful of fuck yous out of the door. Dom felt bad. Earl felt bad. But everyone had their own crosses... And these two yahoos were starved.



Take Two:

Fuck kinda' place is this? Big-ass sequins 'n shit. I didn't know this place had a theme. Last I remember it had plain-old, bland, standard waitresses. This lady with the big-ass sequins doesnít have a menu in her hand or a pencil tucked behind her ear. And what's up with this over the top belly dancer outfit? She sure seems way attentive to our presence like most hosts or wait-staff neglect so reliably. More attentiveness than I've felt in just about any other restaurant I've eaten in [1] (at least as far as I can recall, and I've eaten at enough nice places to make this here diner look like a fucking circle K). Pal-o-mine and I take our seats and a simply dressed woman appears from nowhere to take our drink order. She definitely fits the Sittons waitress style.

"Water", I say.

ďWaterĒ, he says.

"Thanks".

She leaves to get our drinks. Now the sequin lady approaches our table. Is she the host? Is that what's up with the outfit? She arrives at the table overwhelmingly engaging. Wow. Nobody DARES engage people any more. They'll look to you but will rarely look at you. She pauses. Stays paused. Do we remind her of someone? Had she just made the embarrassing mistake of swearing for a moment we were someone she knew? Still paused. Clearly not the composure of such an engaging restaurant host. Is she here with one of the other tables? It's a kind of "pickle-heavy" crowd, mostly guys at our surrounding tables. Not much the social types bouncing around. Being here with friends or even with a date and pouring over a strangerís table with so flagrantly? What kind of respect is that? This chick's weird. Maybe she's just feeling REALLY friendly. I'm starting to think she's a bit crazy.

Composure has now gone completely down the shitter.

"Are you ready to order?" asks the other lady in the regular waitress outfit. Oh shit, THIS chick in the fancy outfit DEFINITELY DOES NOT work here...

"I'm ready if you are." I say to my friend

"I'll take the eggs, scrambled." he says in a bored, no nonsense tone.

"I'll take the ruben."

Crazy Lady, after hovering around the table, starts in on my friend. He deflects her full frontal assault with a judoistic compliment.

"I like your nail polish." my humanitarian, often amused by the sick and bizarre, friend says. Now she takes off her shoe to show the toes... Strange-ass lady. This continues for a few minutes until she eventually leaves. Our real waitress returns.

We eat.

From our patio table we can now see sparkle-nuts cavorting with people in the parking lot next door. Now she's with the near toothless bag lady man. Having nothing to do with race, let me just say, this man is gray. Ew.

We carry on with our biz, I try to ignore her further attempts to engage us from over the patio wall. My friend remains the humoring humanitarian.

We pay.

We leave.

I get caught in her gaze on the way to the car like an unlucky guy with his pants down in the running of the bulls. Whew, all she wants is a cigarette. Bet. I give her a smoke and we get in the car to split.

DING DING! Round ninety-fuckin-nine with the crazy lady is now in session.

"Can you help me?" she says leaning into my friendís window.

"I'm not even good at takin' care of my own
troubles, doll" he replies.

Now she's crying.

"Are you gonna be alright?" he checks. Her response and explanation are emotionally faux finished. Her panic is real, her pain is real, but her attempt to script our response makes it all seem about as fake as the crowns over my root canals. She'll survive. Maybe in Canada, maybe in Ireland. She'll do alright.

"Can you give me and my friend a ride?" Alright, this chick's gottaí be tweekin'.

"No, we're going the other way" my friend says.

"Which way is that?Ē she asks.

"Not that way". We leave.

While we're in the driveway of the lot my friend wrestles with the shifter trying to get into first gear. FLAP FLAP FLAP FLAP! Oh shit! Now she's charging the car. GREAT. Finally first gear and we're out. She's not half as crazy as her behavior. Or, maybe I have that backwards.

[1] Aint that a fuckin' shame, the general state of "service" these days (2005 america).


domandearl@yahoo.com


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